We wear the mask that grins and lies.

The age is materialistic. Verse isn't. I must be with the age, so I am writing prose.

But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core.

Oh, how with more than dreams the soul is torn, ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

This, this indeed is to be accursed, For if we mortals love, or if we sing, We count our joys not by what we have, But by what kept us from that perfect thing.

Slight was the thing I bought, small was the debt I thought, Poor was the loan at best - God! but the interest!

Washington is the city where the big men of little towns come to be disillusioned